last night a dream of flying

last night a dream of flying. faceless figure intent on harm. myself aware vividly of every movement. the body's edges. breathless. it floods with fear. until refuge. chanced(?) upon in a wall of doors. and a fleeting image. a hooded female with painted face. ghostly quicksliver. the metalic sensation of a knife piercing the flesh of wrists and ankles. the wounds through which grew wings..

until my fingers bleed

there are very few
situations that actually
have a point of no return.

it's all drama.

like when we die
the names change.

like the blood
that colours the heart
embroidered on sleeves.

more than shards
of porcelain and cinders.

flood me.

im ready
for what comes next.
forever elsewhere and here.

and all the charms and remedies
detract not from the star fields
whose glitter dusts our heads.

where even the walls
are filled with music.

cobalt.

and those things not intact
we stitch together. in here
where everythig is real.

where eyes turn inward,
away from the mirror
that reveals
not even half the story..


*


“the beginning of all wisdom is to look fixedly on Clothes until they become transparent… the thing Visible, nay the thing Imagined, the thing in any way conceived as visible, what is it but a Garment, a clothing of the higher, celestial Invisible […] what is man himself and his whole terrestrial life, but an Emblem: a Clothing or visible garment for that divine me of his, cast hither, like a light-particle, down from Heaven?” ~ thomas carlyle, sartor restartus


"i suggest you try looking at a mirror in the night: it's dark, it's black, you see almost nothing at all; and yet this nothing is something quite distinctly different from the nothing of the rest of the darkness. you sense the glass, the doubling of depth, some kind of remnant of the ability to shimmer..." ~ musil

"..as long as it talks im going to listen." i said "yes"..

the outline of my mouth.

the way my hands know your face.

these are not words on paper,
but crossed bones
against the white of your skin.

in the hope of not losing them
i knot my memories.

and you rise to the surface.
in one way.
penetrating deeper

reconfiguring the order of things.

performing some kind
of mild erasure.

a feeling
of suspended 'reality',
when in fact
it's us.

living.

the creation of history
in the process of moving
through time

like all love stories,
like snowflakes,
like echoes,

the same.

unique.



*



from the rain
"..nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. it will take as long as it wants, this rain. as long as it talks im going to listen."
~ thomas merton




"everything we hear is an echo. anyone can tell that echoes move forward and backward in time, in rings. but not everyone realizes that, as a result, silence becomes harder and harder for us to grasp - though in itself it is unchanged - because of the echoes pouring through us out of the past..." - w.s. merwin, from 'houses and travelers'

the night punctuated by squares of yellow light

listening
to the sounds of the night muffled by water
unspoken thoughts break the quietness
and all the questions and statements
swimming around are apparent spirals.

movement occurs in fits and starts,
but circular.
like history repeating itself
except names and faces change
until (if ever)
the revolutionary epiphany.

lately my eyes search for the lines
where light becomes shadow
so gradual on a wall or pavement,
although, most of all
i adore the sharp edged shadows.
the kind you could slice
with precision
despite cupped hands
overflowing with rain.

it's about the certainty
of being one or the other,

i think.

a way of being
so unfamiliar and intriguing to one
whose multifaceted interior
is inclined to see every angle simultaneously.
where lines are rarely so defined.
a world where i am the colour of cherries.
i am the slate grey electric sky.
i multiply.
i believe in people.
and you might be all the proof i need..

days worn like pearls

malgorzata maj

*

greed. one of the seven deadly sins. apparently. yet i remain forever hungry. swallow the world every day. or at least i try. songs form in my mouth like future memories recalling to mind the time you brought plums with no nocturnal ambiguities obscure in their clarity. then later, pockets fat with feathers and leaves. talismanic treasures. like runes. or, carved in stone winding like a secret through the grass, the inscription composed in a language unfamiliar to our tongues. our wor(l)ds caught in the branches to hang where the green used to be and i like the image of our insides exhaled and held in the net of the trees so much so i long for ribbon to tie them there. like spring blossom that lasts longer than a season. and i realise it's not necessarily that we're looking for answers, rather for someone with whom we share the same questions and immerse in the wonder that forever fails to fit inside of the edges. moments made sacred by the sheer fact they exist.